Wednesday, July 25, 2007

Perched here with Lyotard

Being here for some time
For something to happen or
Something to happen, I
Not so much the coming of things;
Not some much the ending of things
For being here for some time
Something to end the waiting.

All is not lost or found nor is all present
Or absent. Our thinking, our thoughts

Across many moments or wires of misunderstanding
And make their way toward some kind of truth

Toward deeper and deeper meaning and more
Experience looms ahead and behind and

Is no end to it now or later; it simple is and in its
Isness lifts us out of our outness into inness

To launch
New plans and dreams, new hopes
And then
That simple day when another day passes
Us by.

Saturday, July 14, 2007


When I figure out who you are
I will let you know
So that you can then begin to
Think about what you

Can do with your time and money
Your heart and its
Many fingered friends. You stand
On the brink of the

Brink and long for a life of lives
So that you can be
Who you are and think the thoughts
That make you, you.

Saturday, July 7, 2007

Observe with accuracy; name in fear

His decency and his thoughts of love be
damned again;
his thoughts of the young and his gifts of
do not matter. His legacy was a threat of
change, and change

is a matter to fear. John Dewey walked the
streets of American
education and tried to make some sense of
the cluttered
slums of our dreams. Great as America was
and wide

as her dream, he saw the slipping and felt
the rumble of
the ignorant. Now we talk about him in books
not in awe
but in argument. Little men in big jobs
use the microscope

of research to keep down reason as you would
fight off a
wild dog. Do not talk of Dewey only talk of
the last small
look at next to nothing and measure it very
At Dusk

my silence, having become the silence
of the afternoon,
washed the subtle moment of sunlight
and took away
the divisions completely between what
it looked like

and what it felt like. Snow covered
the ground of my
dreams and chilled the meaning of the day.
I wonder
if we could ever call it forth again,
the stillness,

the wonder of wet weather in white and
black, black
and white. This quietness and the swish
of the tires
against the white snow. The small boy
and his sled.